


Sherlock and Jonathan detective!skills Holmes-Creek.

by soulback



Category: Jonathan Creek (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Jealous!Sherlock, total crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:24:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2712182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulback/pseuds/soulback
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes meets Jonathan Creek. enough said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock and Jonathan detective!skills Holmes-Creek.

Sherlock has a weakness for magic. He's mad for the stuff - watching so-called conjurers perform their tricks on television, deducting their methods, and then revealing their secrets in the most public way possible, i.e. the internet.

At least he knows how to use the tv now, thinks John. John is well aware of Sherlock’s weaknesses. (At the last count, he had three.) John is also aware, through means that he shall never reveal, that this Friday is Sherlock’s birthday. So, being the kind and considerate flatmate he is, John has bought tickets for two to see Adam Klaus perform at the Regal theatre. 

“Tickets to see Adam Klaus?” exclaims Sherlock when he opens the envelope at the breakfast table - in as much as Sherlock ‘exclaims’ about anything.

John bites back a grin and sips his tea. “Happy birthday, mate.”

"My birthday - " Sherlock gives John a sharp look - he suspects cahoots with the landlady - but even he can’t stay stern at the prospect of a live magic show. “But there are two tickets. I have to bring someone?”

John nearly chokes on his tea. The obliviousness of this man to social conventions borders on pathological. “Well, I actually thought we could go together. You know. That was the - “

“Oh!” says Sherlock. Clearly the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Oh! Of course. Well. There you go.”

Sherlock’s cheeks are a study in pink, flushed with happiness. 

_We’ve been flatmates for nearly a year now,_ thinks John, _and he’s still surprised that we should do things together._

Sherlock doesn’t thank John for the tickets, but he doesn’t need to. John knows.

***

The show is dazzling and spectacular. Adam Klaus is ‘an idiot on legs’, as Sherlock describes him - all pomp and flamboyance - but from their balcony seats even Sherlock admits that the actual tricks, especially those tending to illusion, are well designed.

When the show ends, the audience file out into the auditorium - except for John and Sherlock, who sits meditating on the edge of his seat, fingers laced together before him.

“It’s that last trick - the one with the two boxes - unless there was a trap door, which I know this theatre doesn’t have - “ Sherlock mumbles.

John waits patiently for Sherlock, and looks around the emptying theatre and the set.

“Well, there’s a face I haven’t seen in years!” he says, getting to his feet.

A man in an anorak is approaching them across the balcony floor.

“John, you ugly bastard. I thought it was you!”

“Jonathan, you daft nutter.”

John and Jonathan shake hands vigorously. Sherlock glances up to study this intruder. Jeans, sneakers. Curly brown hair, unkempt. Quiet, but no doubt loutish after a few beers. Self-employed. In a complicated relationship. From Essex - no - Sussex. High school friend of John's.

John looks genuinely pleased to see this git; a rare thing, genuine pleasure, since his return from Afghanistan.

“Sherlock - this is my friend Jonathan, an old friend - Jonathan, this is Sherlock, my flatmate.” John makes the introductions excitedly.

“You’re working on the show,” says Sherlock. 

“Yes,” says Jonathan, and raises his eyebrows at John. “And you’re going to rip the guts out of it on your website.”

“How did you - “ begins John, addressing both Sherlock and Jonathan. “No, never mind. Look at you! God, it’s been an age. Sherlock, this is the man who convinced me to - remember I told you about that - so you’re working on the show?”

Sherlock can only conclude that John has lost his mind over this new fellow.

“I helped design some of the tricks,” says Jonathan - with false modesty, Sherlock presumes. “Mostly the ones involving sleight-of-hand, illusion, that sort of thing.”

“You did that? Sherlock was just trying to figure out how the last one was done. Any clues?”

“No need,” interrupts Sherlock, smarting at the betrayal of his confidence. “There were three boxes.” He sits up, and shrugs on his coat.

“Listen - why don’t you come over for a nightcap? We’re just around the corner,” John says.

***

“Tea?” John calls as he enters the kitchen of their small apartment.

“Thanks. Milk, no sugar.”

Jonathan stands awkwardly in the living room, looking around the decadent mess of books, papers, worn leather couches, and skull on the mantle piece.

Sherlock slips off his coat and drapes it over the end of the chaise-lounge, which he flops into with all the elegance and grace of a swan queen; leaving Jonathan to remove his anorak, and sit gingerly on the edge of the arm chair.

John can be heard fiddling with cups and canasters in the kitchen. Silence reigns in the living room.

“Nice place you have here,” Jonathan says, by way of conversation.

“Yes,” says Sherlock. He pushes his feet against one end of the chaise-lounge and his head against the other.

That he has taken an instant disliking to Jonathan does not surprise Sherlock; he takes an instant disliking to everyone. Except John. Somehow, the quiet, mild-mannered, ferociously loyal and stupidly brave army doctor slipped through. But Sherlock has no intention of making this guest, this friend of John’s, feel comfortable. 

_Friend_. John never has friends over. Well, there’s Sarah, but she hasn't been here for several weeks; not since The Pig Head Incident, as Sherlock refers to it. (John does not refer to it at all). Of course John _has friends_ , Sherlock supposes - most men his age do. But not in the flat. 

In the flat, it's just John and Sherlock.

"Conjurers rely on the fact that the audience are too stupid to realise how small the human body really is, when contorted," says Sherlock. "And that they are easily distracted by bright lights and loud noises."

"Yes," says Jonathan. "I rely on that a fair bit."

He doesn't seem at all put out by Sherlock's statement. Sherlock must not be hitting hard enough.

"So you create magic 'tricks' that make use of the audience's stupidity to take their money from them -"

"Sherlock loves it," says John, appearing in the doorway with three cups of tea. He is unable to hide the humour from his mouth. "And he certainly has no scruples about the audience being duped of their money."

"I resent that."

"Nevertheless."

Jonathan raises his eyebrows politely as he accepts his tea.

“So,” says John, flopping contentedly onto the couch and sipping his tea. “You should have looked me up ages ago! It’s been too long - “

"Show us a trick," says Sherlock.

"What?"

Sherlock sits up, laces his fingers together in front of him. "You're a magician. Show us a trick."

"Like I said," says Jonathan. "I just invent them."

"Cards. You must have some card tricks up your sleeve. I have some card tricks up my sleeve. Let's compare them, shall we?"

John sighs. "Please excuse him. He’s has a point to prove, and he’ll be insufferable until he does."

"I can hear you," says Sherlock.

"I know."

Jonathan places his tea carefully on the floor next to the armchair. "Got a deck?"

Sherlock rises to his feet and stomps across the living room to the cabinet. He finds a pack, and places them on the coffee table. He folds himself back onto the chaise-lounge, perching like a duck, knees up at his chin.

Jonathan taps the cards out of their battered cardboard case. He shuffles them quickly, and places them in the middle of the table. "This is a trick I learnt in college. It's pretty dumb, actually."

"Then we may yet have a chance of working out your methods," says Sherlock, sarcastically.

"Is that the game? You figure out my trick, I figure out yours?" asks Jonathan, and laughs, saying something with his eyes to John. Sherlock doesn't understand the eyegaze language of private school boys, but he suspects he may be the subject of that particular conversation. "Do you want to inspect the cards?"

"I don't need to," says Sherlock.

“Hang on,” says John. He turns over each card in turn, murmuring names and counting to himself as he works through the deck. He shuffles the deck six times. “Okay,” he says warily, handing the cards back.

“Thorough,” says Jonathan.

Sherlock scowls.

Without theatrics, Jonathan fans out the cards in the middle of the table. He's not a performer - he's an inventor - and he works through the trick as if he was sorting papers at a desk.

“Sherlock, would you like to pick a card?”

Sherlock stares directly at Jonathan, and grabs a card.

“And John - would you like to pick a card?”

“Certainly,” says John. His hand hovers over the table - fifty one choices - moving from one end of the fan to the other. He glances at Jonathan as he does so, obviously trying to gauge his reaction.

“It won’t help,” says Jonathan, smiling.

“Let the man pick his card,” says Sherlock.

John shoots Sherlock a look, as he selects a card from the middle of the deck and slides it face down towards himself.

“Have a look, then put it back, anywhere you like.”

John replaces his card. Sherlock glances at the Knave of Hearts in his hand, then takes the deck, puts his card on the top, and proceeds to shuffle the deck briskly. He slides the deck onto the middle of the table; this time, a definite challenge to Jonathan.

Jonathan shakes his head. “Okay,” he says. With quick fingers he deals 13 cards onto the table in a pile to the left; and then 23 cards into a pile to the right. He pauses a moment, as if thinking - then crosses the piles over, so that the right pile is in front of John, and the left pile is in front of Sherlock. Casually, he turns the piles over.

The top card on John’s pile is the three of clubs. The top card on Sherlock’s pile is the Knave of Hearts.

Jonathan looks up. “Okay?”

John grabs his pile, and starts flicking through it, turning every card over. “Yes, but - ?”

“Okay, Sherlock?”

Sherlock leans back into his chair, and frowns at the card in front of him. Jonathan lets out a little laugh, and leans back into his chair, almost breathless.

“That’s fantastic!” says John.

Sherlock winces. _Fantastic_. 

The Knave of Hearts is taunting him. The deck was his. There was no time or opportunity to rig it. Sherlock shuffled the cards himself at the end. Jonathan didn’t even look at the cards as he dealt them into piles. 

In the world of magic tricks and trickery, cards are of special interest to Sherlock, and what he doesn’t know about them wouldn’t fill a book - but this is new. The trick is quiet and casual, especially in the hands of an inventor who doesn't care for dramatics - but a moment's thought shows that it’s damn clever. As John says, it’s fantastic. John doesn’t even know how fantastic it is.

"Have you got it?" asks Jonathan.

"Not yet," says Sherlock. 

“I don’t know how you did it,” says John. “But let’s have a drink.” He gets up and starts rummaging in the liquor cabinet.

Jonathan smiles at Sherlock, and starts shuffling the deck. “It’s a really stupid trick. It doesn’t usually work that well.”

Is that supposed to make him feel any better? Sherlock wonders.

“Oh dear God, you’ve ruined his pride,” says John, returning with glasses and a bottle of scotch. He looks fondly at the baffled detective, but Sherlock doesn’t notice - there are flashing blue lights at the window. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitch. John couldn’t have given him a better birthday present if he’d tried.

A minute later, Lestrade appears at the door with two officers in blue.

“A woman’s been murdered - found in an empty room, locked from the inside - it looks like a case for -” As Lestrade speaks to Sherlock, he notices the quiet form of Jonathan sitting in the chair. “What are you doing here?”

“Bloody hell, not him too,” mumbles one of the officers.

John and Sherlock look at Jonathan, who stands with his hands in his pockets.

“You interested?" Lestrade turns from Jonathan to Sherlock. "I mean - both of you? Hell, all three of you?” He shakes his head, muttering as an afterthough, “What has Scotland Yard become, seeking the help of three men in duffel coats, that’s what I want to know.”

John is the first to respond. “You’re a consulting detective, too?” 

Jonathan doesn’t deny it. John is chuffed. Sherlock is - _chuffed_ is almost exactly the wrong word. He’s supposed to be the only consulting detective in the world. He _invented_ the job. 

And now he’s got competition.

The game is on.


End file.
